


Catching My Breath, Letting It Go

by wickedgal08



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedgal08/pseuds/wickedgal08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU set during 4x03. Three-shot. Damon wakes up in the tomb, trapped, with no means of escape, along with Elena, who happens to have werewolf venom in her system. With only a stake at hand, and no friends on hand to save the day, Elena and Damon are forced to confront everything they've been holding back with each other, leading Damon into eventually making a heartbreaking decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He’s acutely aware there’s a raspy quality to his breath that tells him when he opens his eyes, it won’t reveal his room. His head is resting against something solid, cold, and unforgiving – much like Katherine Pierce in that respect, and that little analogy has him smiling for half a second. Trust him to find humour in a (presumably) bleak situation.

            When Damon finds the energy to awaken, his eyes reveal nothing but darkness. There’s a cold draft as well that feels bitter to the touch, yet sings of freedom he cannot grasp between his fingers. His eyes adjust, scouting out the lightest shades of darkness that he can try and fathom a location from. But it doesn’t take him too long to work out where he is, given the fact he’s been in this general area twice; once on a desperate mission to rescue the woman he loved, and the other time to actually lock her up where she was supposed to have been all along. There’s a cruel sort of irony that he’s back here again, alone, consumed by the darkness.

            A small cough brings his attention to the fact he’s not alone, and he snaps his head to one side trying to figure out where it’s coming from. There’s a feminine quality to it – the extra height in pitch – that gives him a vague clue as to who else could be locked up inside with him, but even still that only narrows down the choice of suspects to two individuals, both wearing the same face but with two completely different personalities.

            How cruel a joke would it be if it turns out Katherine is who he’s (temporarily) stuck here with? For the woman he’d once dedicated near enough two centuries to finding and rescuing to be trapped inside the very place she should’ve been all this time, with him, luckless in love, bound by blood to the very woman who’d ruined his entire life?

            He gives a dark chuckle at all the ways he could torture Katherine Pierce in the dark, and it would still not be enough retribution for the many years she’s had him wrapped around her little finger, but the next sound out of his companion’s mouth is enough to convince him it’s – thankfully – not her.

            “Damon?”

            There’s a distinct quality to the way Elena says it that differentiates from the way Katherine says it. While the latter tends to purr his name, Elena seems to speak his name like it’s a question, like she always wants answers from him. That’s how he can tell between them more than anything else.

            “Elena?” He smirks. “How did you guess it was little old me?”

            “I’d recognise that obnoxious laugh anywhere.” Another cough passes her lips. “What’s going on? Where are we?”

            “Disneyland,” he gives a sarcastic cheer, “isn’t it obvious?”

            “Be serious, Damon.”

            He exhales sharply.

            “We’re in the tomb,” he confesses. “Deep in the heart of it, I think.”

            Her breath hitches; he can register it with absolute clarity. Maybe he’s just attuned to her every movement now, able to tell just by the way she breathes what’s going through her mind. It drives him crazy, amassing this knowledge he cannot ever use, at least not in the way he would like.

            “Is Bonnie’s spell still intact? Can we not try and leave?”

            “Would be a good idea if I had any sense of how far in we are,” he replies wryly.

            He attempts to move, his legs unstable; his entire body under a spell of dizziness he can’t quite control just yet. He clutches the wall for support, wondering why his vampire eyesight seems to be failing him right now. In darkness, shapes and outlines usually present themselves to a vampire’s eyes, yet all he can see is the pitch black of the tomb’s belly. At some point, his legs stop shaking like he’s learning to walk, and he gets a better sense of where he’s going.

            Speed’s useless here; there are not many places to actually go to within the tomb itself – just a large area perfect for entombing several starved vampires for several centuries or so. Oddly enough, the memory of being here haunts him a little. He remembers with perfect clarity who he’d been during that moment of time; a desperate, arrogant, reckless vampire with a purpose which had ended up being a complete waste of time. Even now, he gets a trickle of nostalgia for those days when being a complete bastard had a meaning to it, even if that meaning later on resurfaced only to rip his heart out and taunt him with the knowledge he would always be second best to his younger brother.

            His _younger_ brother...

            Why does that particularly stick out like a sore thumb in the tragedy of a novel that is his life? What is it about the fact that it’s his younger – and, granted, only – brother that makes him want to stab something recklessly and impulsively until the hurt goes away? Doesn’t tradition hold favour to the eldest sibling of each family? So why has life served him nothing but course after course of disappointment?

            He muses on this fact as he continues to stride his way through the various tunnels the tomb has to offer, still unable to find the entrance until his outstretched hands reach for the seal which blocks the way out. Attempting to push it proves futile; something strong, like a spell, has obviously been cast to ensure nobody of superior strength can move it.

            Frustrated, he kicks at it, which does nothing. He uses his brute strength and attempts to push it again, throwing his entire weight against it, but that too proves to be a fruitless endeavour.

            Knowing Elena will hear him he calls back, “Looks like we’re stuck here. Even if there’s a spell on the door, we’ll never know because this goddamn rock is in the way, and I can’t budge it, so yeah, presume that we’re trapped here until further notice.”

            She lets out a muffled sound he presumes is one of disappointment. He can personally think of worse people to be trapped in a dark tomb with – Klaus, Katherine, that obnoxious new vampire hunter, to name but a few – so really she’s lucked out getting stuck with him. It’s him that has the bad luck here, being entombed in the darkness with a girl he loves with his entire being, yet doomed to never have because even though they met first, he didn’t win her heart first. Stefan beat him to the post there.

            But it’s not a competition, he knows. Sometimes it feels like one though, with every dodgy look Stefan throws his way, every subtle warning his brother gives him to stay away from Elena, and of course he thrives on winding him up.

            Or at least he did.

            It still baffles him that his brother could let the love of his life drown and still walk away with her, and an eternity of mushiness, like it had all been planned. Because if the circumstances had been very different, he would’ve let Matt drown and saved her, no matter how angry and upset it would’ve made her. She could be pissed at him for her entire human life, but at least she would’ve had one to come back to. She could’ve staked him in the heart, and he would’ve died happy with the knowledge that she would be okay, and that all her life choices would be ones made as a _human_ not a vampire.

            It seems when it comes to Elena he’s both selfish and selfless, depending on which way you look at things.

            “Where are you?” he calls, turning on his heel, speeding back through the darkness, relying on his senses to find him

            “Here,” she croaks, and there’s something off about her voice that he can’t quite figure out, a raw note he’s not heard from her before.

            He finds her slumped up against a wall, half sitting, half standing, his hands finding hers, and, with a gentle tug, he pulls her to her feet, instinctively gripping her tight to make sure she doesn’t fall apart between his fingers.

            Her skin feels as smooth as ever, even textured by this atmosphere. She’s wearing a low cut, short sleeved top, which gives his hands plenty of opportunities to wander in the name of making sure she’s okay. He caresses her skin lightly, tracing circles as he waits for her to come to life. As his hand makes a tracing motion down her arm, something causes him to freeze, a look of concern dawning on his face, not that she would be able to read it in the dark. Something doesn’t feel right underneath his fingers; they trace an all too familiar wound that has his heart doing a complex somersault before dropping altogether.

            “What is this?” he whispers, fear inserted into his voice.

            Her fingers find his before exploring the area for herself.

            “Oh.... oh _god._ ” Her voice is lighter than air, yet heavy with emotion. “I think it’s a – “

            _“Don’t say it.”_

            “You asked.”

            He inhales deeply.

            “It can’t be,” he says firmly, although he knows full well there’s only one kind of mark that a vampire’s healing power can’t eradicate. “It’s not.”

            He’s never been one for denial, but right now he’s burying himself in it because there is absolutely no way he’s in this situation right now: trapped in a tomb with the woman he loves, who bears a wound that can and will kill her if he doesn’t get them both out of here in time.

            Running a hand through his thick raven locks, Damon tries to think, tries to cultivate a possible explanation as to who could be behind such a cruel act. _Klaus?_ He might get a kick out of this, watching his former blood bag die slowly under painful circumstances while trapped with the Salvatore she’s not romantically entangled with. But it doesn’t seem his style somehow; he would surely have a front row seat if this sort of spectacle was how he got his jollies. Could it be the new hunter in town? That seems more likely, although why he hasn’t simply come and put them both out of their misery has him completely bewildered.

            A hiss escapes Elena’s lips as her fingers lightly press on the wound, and instantly he’s back to reality, feeling her hand trace the wound, and he can feel it shaking slightly because his hand refuses to leave that spot on her body, as if somehow he’s hoping his touch might be enough to cure her. He’s forgotten how hard the wound actually feels; it’s like a series of interconnecting scabs, some triggering pain by a light brush of contact. He can’t really see it in the shadows of the tomb, but he knows it’ll be a murky grey in colour tinged with patches of angry red.

            “How bad is it?” she asks, doing well to hide her real emotions here, but he knows her well enough to be able to detect traces of fear in her otherwise dulcet tones.

            He feels his way around the wound, determining the size of it. It engulfs a good quarter of her arm, from the top of it to just above her elbow. That tells him one thing: she’s not got quite as much time as he would’ve hoped. The bigger the wound, the more venom has reached her vital organs – this is just common knowledge. How long then, he wonders, until he loses her mentally? What happens when she clings to a past moment he’s not privy to and he has to watch her fall apart?

            His breathing comes out in shaky bursts, and he leaves her side for just one moment to reach the entrance, yelling out any coherent word he can think of to get any attention from above. If it’s a random stranger, he can compel them to go find Bonnie and Stefan. If it’s someone he knows, all the better for him. But he yells and yells and yells, until he must be blue in the face, and all that greets him is a cold silence.

            He stands there, stubbornly waiting for a response, his heart in his mouth, and as he moves to try and turn, his foot hits something that rattles and rolls. He hopes it’s a phial of Klaus’ blood, but when have they ever been that lucky? He stoops to pick it up, already aware of what it is the moment his hands clasp it.

            _A stake._

Designed for two purposes: to rid yourself of unwanted vampire enemies, or to deliver a mercy killing for a vampire suffering from werewolf venom.

            He delves into his pockets to search for his phone, but again they aren’t that lucky. Sighing with frustration, he lets his fists drum against the wall, his anger and torment rising to steep levels he’s almost unable to cope with. He smashes his fists again and again until they start to bleed. A sickening sense of helplessness settles in his stomach, because the way he sees it they’re both likely to suffer down here, but his will be due to slow, painful desiccation, with no definite end in sight.

            Her hand slips on his shoulder, steadying him as she’s always done when he’s been an emotional wreck. He grasps her hand in a desperate gesture both of them are surprised by. Her fingers, almost reacting to his touch, entwine around his, and the moment created from such a gesture is almost...dare he say it...intimate. But it’s born from such dire circumstances, he can’t find it within himself to enjoy the moment.

            “How long do I have?”

            Her tone seems to suggest she’s already resigned to her fate, which instantly infuriates him.

            “Forever if I have it my way,” he spits, turning around, his eyes attuned to the darkness enough that he can make out her face. “You’re not dying down here, Elena. Not now, not ever.”

            He can almost feel her watching him as he turns on his heel and paces back and forth, attempting to work off the worst of his anger. They should be figuring out ways to get out of this, but as it stands only one of them seems to be refusing point blank to accept this situation.

            “I don’t see how we can get out of here if there’s a spell blocking us from getting out, Damon, and even if we could get the seal out of the way, there’s no way of knowing if the spell Bonnie put up there has been lifted or not? It was Elijah’s witches that de-spelled it to let Stefan out. They could’ve put it back up without us even knowing.”

            “It shouldn’t still be up, not when there’s no one left to entomb here anymore,” he fumes, ignoring her for the moment. “The tomb vampires got out, thanks to my stupid need to find a woman who didn’t want to be found as it turned out, and Katherine managed to manipulate her way out of here, so it’s _pointless_ it even being up if what you say is true.”

            There’s a pause where he thinks about all the trouble witches have brought him so far in his life. None of them have ever been helpful without a price, or a judgemental word thrown his way, that’s why he’s never trusted them. Bree had been one exception, and even she had turned out to be utterly useless in the end.

            “I’m gonna wring Bonnie’s skinny neck when we get out of here,” he impulsively growls.

            “No you won’t!” Elena snaps, recoiling from his violent outburst. “Damon, don’t you dare – “

            “Why?” His sarcasm does well to stifle the worst of his fear. “If it turns out I’m too late in saving you, and if by some miracle the spell drops after you’re gone, I won’t have anyone left to stop me doing what the hell I want to do anymore. And, let’s face it, she’s gonna want to torch my ass for not being able to save you anyway, so it’s just a case of getting her before she gets me.”

            “So if I die, you’re just going to go out in a blaze of glory?” _Why can’t she possess this fire in regards to preserving her own life?_  “Your be-all-end-all attitude is just ridiculous, Damon. In fact, _you’re_ ridiculous right now!”

            “Your martyr act is hardly tolerable either you know,” he retorts.

            They glare at each other, and the tension is almost unbearable. He knows it could very quickly turn into sexual tension if he inserted the right innuendo into the conversation, or touched her the right way, but god knows this isn’t the right moment for that.

            “I can’t lose you,” he whispers, hoping the darkness would swallow that confession, but no such luck.

            He waits for the assuring, “You won’t” to fall from her lips, but the silence that follows says too much. He’s a 100 and something year old vampire – he lost track of his age around the hundred mark if he’s being brutally honest - and he’s never been more terrified than he is right now.

            “What are you holding?” she asks, changing the subject, reaching around to grab the stake. He can almost hear the penny drop with a loud clang inside her mind. “Oh... “

            “Don’t you dare ask this of me,” he warns, because he _knows_ the way her mind works; he wouldn’t put it past her to beg him for a mercy killing using her doe eyes, just because she knows he’ll do anything for her because he’s that fucking whipped. “Don’t you fucking put me through that, Elena Gilbert.”

            He’s using her entire name because he wants to drive home how much he _hates_ this situation right now. It’s sick, it’s twisted, it’s the classic situation he always seems to find himself in – caught between shades of morality; the wrong action versus the right action.

            “I’m not asking anything of you,” she makes sure to tell him. “But we don’t know how long we’re gonna be down here – “

            “Don’t.”

            “– And it might come to the moment where you’ll need to – “

            “NO!” he bellows, slamming his hand right next to where she stands so that her entire body flinches at his burst of violence.

            She lays a hand on his shoulder, but it’s not enough. He shrugs her off, stalking back into the darkness, growling the entire way. Maybe if he lies down and closes his eyes, he’ll wake up back in his own bed, tucked between Egyptian cotton sheets, dreaming of a love he’ll never have. That’s the torture he lives with on a daily basis, and that hurts him like a stake to the chest as it goes, so this – this situation – is bottom of the very long list of scenarios he never thought he would ever have to live out.

            Her breathing already has a raspy quality to it; unsurprising really, given the dosage of werewolf venom she must’ve been given. The size of the wound roughly correlates with the dosage given; since Tyler only nipped him, his wound hadn’t been that large, so it had been easy to hide, that is until the motherfucker spread like wildfire.

            “It doesn’t hurt yet,” she says, sounding faintly surprised.

            “It won’t. It’ll itch like a bitch at first, but the pain will come later,” he throws at her darkly.

            Damon doesn’t brood on memories past – not anymore. He’s shelved his own experiences with werewolves into a Do Not Discuss file, because frankly he’s done with the whole lot of them. But even still, as he finds a quiet spot to lie down and brood – taking a few pages from his brother’s handbook – he reflects on the way he’d spiralled out of control. Rose’s bite had been the result of a vicious attack, a vindictive strike intended for him and him only, and she’d gotten in the way, yet it hadn’t diminished the attack itself in any way. Her mark had been fairly substantial, so she’d spiralled quickly; his had been a mere nip, so he’d managed to stay lucid longer, but not by a great stretch.

            How long would Elena last? Twenty four hours? Forty eight?

            A familiar shape rests itself beside him, moulding her body around his, and without thinking he reaches out, pulling her closer towards him. He can feel her react with a degree of some surprise at the tender gesture, but it doesn’t stop him. He lets her head fall across his chest, her breathing pattern his own personal lullaby. His fingers entwine with hers, and for one moment he lets himself believe this is what life could be like if they were together. It’s one moment of serenity he commits to memory.

            “I’m sure they’ll miss us and come looking for us,” Elena suddenly murmurs, but her tone suggests she’s not quite convinced of that.

            “Maybe.” He’s not convinced at all because he’s not lucky like that. “But if my brother and those idiots you call your friends do realise we’re missing, their first thoughts aren’t going to lead them here. Plus Bonnie seems to be AWOL as of late, so even if our absence is noted, what are the chances anybody’s gonna get through to her to help?”

            “She has been through a lot, Damon, cut her some slack.”

            “Why should I? She’s a pain and she knows it.”

            A sharp dig to the ribs is what he earns for his comment.

            “She saved your life on multiple occasions, you ass – show a little more gratitude.”

            He smiles wanly at her attempt at insulting him.

            “If she could just keep her judgemental comments to herself, I might actually like her.”

            “Oh please, that’s exactly why you do like her. She doesn’t put up with the abuse you give her. She puts you in your place, and you respect that about her – deep down.”

            “So do you, you know. I am so whipped around you ladies. No wonder nobody can take me seriously anymore.”

            She laughs, and the motion shakes his entire body, sending coils of pleasure rippling through his body.

            “You gotta stop that, you know,” he murmurs, before he can stop himself.

            “Stop what?”

            “Driving me crazy.”

            It’s a cheesy line, but it’s true. His sanity levels haven’t been the same since he’d been forced to concede the depth of his feelings for her. Her martyr tendencies frustrate the hell out of him, but it’s also the biggest difference between her and Katherine; her heart conceals a darkness he’s been on the verge of coaxing out, because she is so much more than the good girl everyone knows and loves, yet his brother remains blind to it, whether it’s woeful or wilful ignorance, however, he’s yet to determine.

            “Damon – “

            “I know, I know – I need to back off since you’re with Captain Hero Hair, a man who I’m pretty sure spends more on gel than I do on alcohol.”

            “Don’t you guys just compel yourselves everything you want? I can’t picture you guys buying, well, anything.”

            “Normally, yes, but with basic stuff like shopping, we try and attract as little attention as possible. Security guards might start getting suspicious if their pesky cameras continued to show hot ass guys like myself staring into the eyes of beautiful cashiers – and, I’ll admit, some not so beautiful cashiers – and then walking away without paying a dime.”

            “Huh. Never thought of it like that.”

            Why are they even talking about such trivial matters? Of course she must be curious about the perks of compulsion, as well as the occasions where such a perk proves to be a hassle not an asset. Secretly, he knows he’s dying to teach her everything about being a vampire, because god knows Stefan will skip over the parts she absolutely _needs_ to know in favour of a more docile approach. His brother has always been idiotic like that, fixing his own fears and insecurities onto others he’s taken under the wing, although granted Caroline seemed to do okay, and that’s about the closest to a compliment he’s ever going to mentally award her.

            “How does it feel?”

            She doesn’t even need to work out what he means by that.

            “It itches, but isn’t too bad yet,” she replies softly.

            “You’re not dying today you know that right?” he asks fiercely.

            “I don’t _want_ to die, but if we can’t get out – “

            “Don’t even think like that. Stop being all the glass-is-half-empty - you’re becoming like Stefan.”

            He’s used to her intake of breath whenever he talks about Stefan in a negative way, but it irritates him that Stefan’s made this whole vampire situation sound like the worst fate to ever befall someone. Very few people choose this lifestyle, and with good reason. It brings the best and worst traits of a person to the surface, and though turning it off is an option, it gets harder and harder to do so as the years go by. But all the same, he feels the perks outnumber the disadvantages, by a landslide – at least, that’s what he tells himself – and his logic is that if you drill it into someone’s head often enough that this lifestyle is all doom and gloom, then that’s what their mind is going to focus on when they turn. Stefan’s spouted so much crap about losing control in Elena’s direction that of course her first concern as a new vampire was how to feed without hurting anyone. Stefan has always been paranoid of other people losing control, applying his own shortcomings to everyone else, and that’s the main thing he’s always found irritating about his brother.

            But none of that matters now, because the woman he loves is dying, and his heart is slowly turning cold at the idea of life without her.

            “I’m cold,” she says, and he can feel the fluctuating temperatures of her body because the flesh on her hands next the flesh on his indicates that she’s already undergoing the first steps of the venom sinking in.

            He doesn’t even think about it; he shrugs off his leather jacket and drapes it over her like a blanket. It won’t make a tangible bit of difference in the long run, but at least he’s _doing something_. It’s a small gesture, a miniscule effort in the bid to keep her alive, not that vampires can die from the cold or anything...

            “I keep thinking about Rose,” she confesses, her gloomy tone infectious. “About how she kept thinking I was Katherine, and then when I turned my back for one second, she was gone.” She contemplates for a second, remembering a minor detail he’d only confessed to her weeks afterwards. “I guess the one good thing about being locked up here is I can’t go on a killing spree, right? I won’t be so out of it that I just lose all control and start attacking people like she did, right?”

            He falls silent at that.

            _That’s_ the positive aspect of this twisted scenario she’s focusing on? Elena’s compassionate nature baffles him, but it’s an endearing part of her he wouldn’t change for the world. She would trap herself in here voluntarily if it meant preventing needless deaths at her hand.

            “My brother will find us, Elena, and then we’ll get you out of here, I promise.”

            “But then there’s the small matter of getting Klaus to feed me his blood to save my life,” she reminds him. “I’m not important to him anymore, Damon. My blood is useless now I’m a vampire.”

            He closes his eyes at the reminder.

            “Then we’ll force him to give it you. Beg, bargain, get Caroline to bat her eyes at him until the end of time... I don’t care. I would go down on my knees and offer him an eternity’s worth of service if I could get even one drop of his precious blood out of his narcissistic body to give you.”

            She chuckles, but it’s a broken sound.

            “For someone who doesn’t do the whole romantic, sappy speech thing, you sure are good at ‘em.”

            _Damn straight,_ he thinks with wry amusement. _I’ve conjured up about a million of ‘em in my spare time to say to you if you’d made the choice to be with me and not my decidedly less attractive brother._

“You know it’s true though.”

            She moves closer to him, tucking her head under his neck. He tries to pretend like that simple movement doesn’t mean the world to him, at the same time she tries to pretend it was done out of necessity not out of sheer need to be closer to him.

            “I know.”

             


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours have passed.

            How he knows that, he can’t quite say, but he’s not wasted a single moment of those two hours; at least, he’s tried not to. His mind has been conjuring up various schemes to try and get them out of there, but all of them revolve around yelling at the seal of the tomb until someone surely has to hear them. He’s frustrated, naturally, but there’s a quiet agony to this frustration that burns his insides.

            She’s drifted off to sleep – god knows how – and he relishes the fact she’s this close to him, her head resting on top of where his heart beats, her hand resting on his, the serenity of this moment so precious, but tainted by the knowledge she’s dying and he has absolutely no way of helping her. This is such a suffocating feeling that if it weren’t for the fact she’s the most at peace he’s ever seen her, even in such dire circumstances, he would attempt to smash this entire place down just to feel like he’s actually doing something other than waiting for her to take her last breath.

            Damon knows there’s a reason for all of this. Someone who really has it in for him must be sitting somewhere, enjoying the fact that he’s trapped down here with the girl he loves, yet every second that passes is a second closer to her dying in his arms. What’s the appeal of dying in someone’s arms anyway? Nothing romantic about it at all – just more pain for the poor fool whose arms become a coffin to hold the dead.

            And why has that task befallen to him anyway? It’s not like she’s going to profess her undying love for him with her last breaths. That’s not really her style anyway; the Elena he knows tells much more with her eyes and her smile, and it’s what he loves about her. Of course she can be mushy – what teenage girl isn’t? – and naive and stubborn, but if those are her worst flaws, he isn’t worthy enough to sit in her shadow, much less where he is actually sitting right now.

            He looks down at her, able to see so much more now that he’s accustomed to the darkness. He can tell by the way her eyelids flicker that she’s in a fitful sleep, her body occasionally stirring as if she’s about to awaken. She stirs all the same, murmuring something incoherent under her breath he can’t quite catch. Her breath has an aroma that sings of bourbon, so she’s had a drink before they’ve ended up here – maybe that’s how the werewolf venom got into her system- and he inhales every time she exhales, breathing it in – breathing _her_ in.

            It strikes him now as he stares down at her how much he’s ruined her life. He swept into town callously after his brother, making sure to turn her picture perfect town into a scene from a horror film, all the while throwing curveball after curveball in her direction – like turning Vicki, snapping Jeremy’s neck, feeding her his blood twice, once out of spite, the second time out of sheer desperation – and expecting her to just deal with it. He’s hated Katherine all this time for being a manipulative and psychotic she-devil, but is he any better really?

            Katherine just gives him someone to blame for everything, when ideally he should accept responsibility for his own cruel and twisted actions. On his own deathbed, he’d confessed to Elena nobody had made him love her, nobody had made him turn into this twisted man with a heart only capable of caring for one person at a time, bleeding nothing but contempt for the rest of the world. Maybe on hers he can finally apologise for everything he’s done to hurt her and her friends (and actually mean it). 

            She bolts up, her hand pressing unnecessarily hard into his chest as she does so. He caresses her face to calm her, noting with discomfort she’s sweating already; granted, it’s just a faint sheen that coats her face, but it’s the start of a downward spiral that will end with her death.

            “I had a bad dream,” she murmurs, in a tone that suggests she’s not quite all there.

            “Tell me about it.”

            She stares.

            “Since when does Damon Salvatore want to hear about my dreams?” she asks suspiciously.

            “I find having something to focus your thoughts – like planning to rescue a certain damsel from a sacrifice, or talking about something inconsequential – keeps your mind from wandering. If your mind wanders, there’s a good chance you’ll succumb to your own demons, something in your past that still haunts you. For me and Rose, our demons revolved around Katherine, specifically how the bitch ruined our lives.” He sweeps a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “For you it might be something much worse.”

            He knows she has a plethora of dark moments which could come back and haunt her, and he wonders how many of those he has a principal role in.

            “I’ll look forward to it,” she quips, and he knows he hasn’t lost her yet. “Fine – if you want to know, my nightmare was about the night Rebekah forced me and Matt of the bridge.” He stiffens – he still has so much to say about that night, but it’s her show right now, so he keeps silent. “But Matt wasn’t with me. I was alone when I – “ she swallows, and the sound is painful to hear, “ - I was alone when I died. And no one came to save me, so I woke up underwater alone. And I kept sitting there, wondering how I was even alive, and why I was alive, and when the answer hit me, I was gone again, because I’d taken too long to transition.” She lets out a sound that could either be a sob or a broken laugh. “Pretty stupid, huh?”

            “It’s not.”

            Her pain is his pain. Her fears are his reality.

            She died just when he was too far away to do anything about it, and he only realised that god awful truth when somebody else dear to him – admittedly not in his right mind – passed away. There are no words to describe the feeling you feel when you’re travelling at inconceivable speeds just to confirm to your eyes what you know to be true in your heart. He couldn’t even properly digest Meredith’s words until he collapsed in a seat next to Elena’s body – because in that moment, that’s all she had been, a body – and allowed everything to sink in.

            Of course he’d given his brother a beating for being a fucking idiot. But in hindsight, maybe he can understand to a degree his own brother’s logic, given the fact they’ve always handled Elena differently. He’s always been the bad guy, who keeps her alive at the expense of others. Stefan always frets and worries about the long term emotional damage, which he couldn’t – and still can’t - give two shits about. Of course he wants her to be happy, but he knows she’s a survivor; she’s tougher than Stefan will ever give her credit for. Treating her like a fragile flower isn’t going to help her emotionally in the long run.

            Not that there seems to be a long run anymore, and the thought depresses him.

            “Not stupid,” he assures her, finding his voice. “But you should know, Elena, I will never forgive Stefan for leaving you behind. I can forgive him for all else, but not – not that.” He hesitates. “I don’t know how you can.”

            “It was my _choice_ , Damon – he just respected that choice.”

            “Sometimes your choices are stupid though.”

            “But they’re _my_ choices, Damon – they’re the only thing I have control over anymore. I’m constantly on the verge of falling apart, and the last thing I need is your snarky commentary on every decision I make. I wouldn’t change what happened that night for anything. Matt’s alive, and that to me justifies my death.”

            He doesn’t comment, but he shows his displeasure by sitting up and moving away.

            He doesn’t need this right now - to be reminded of the fact the way he loves her will be exactly the reason why he’ll never have her. She’ll never be okay with the lengths he goes to protect her, or understand just how strong and fierce his love for her is. She stays with Stefan because he’s safe for her. He’ll protect her and keep her friends safe, and that’s what she loves about him, but in the end their so called “epic love” wasn’t enough of a reason for his brother to wave the middle finger to her choice and drag her from a watery grave.

            He hears her sigh and rises to his feet, walking away before another guttural sigh pulls him back towards her.

            He walks for an hour or so, around and around the tomb, exorcising his darkest thoughts from his body. At one point he swears he hears her crying, but when he stops to listen, all he can hear is the sound of her heartbeat, which at this point is the equivalent of a snail in a race, knowing it’s going to get absolute nowhere fast, yet continues its valiant effort all the same.

Damon storms his way to the entrance again, triggered by the sound of her sluggish heart, pushing his entire weight against the seal, but it won’t budge. Something – magic presumably – is in the way, and eventually he slides against it, pushing his face into his hands, defeat and despair combining to make a formidable enemy he just cannot win against.

            When she coughs loudly, in a way he’s come to recognise, he’s by her side instantly, watching her through hooded eyes, noting that she’s shaking a little, and with a sigh, he sits back down, guiding her back down across his lap.

            “You shouldn’t move,” he tells her. “Maybe if we can keep you as still as possible, we can – “

            He cannot finish his own sentence, because he’s clinging to hope at this point. He’s become Stefan, fishing for answers when there are none to be found.

            “Just – try and stay awake,” he eventually finishes, when he really means: _stay with me._

            He can feel her nod, and they sit there in silence, his brain all the while trying to remember if there was ever another way out of here that the tomb vampires and Katherine might’ve missed. He knows he’s fooling himself for having hope, but if dwelling on the tiniest bit of light in an otherwise dark situation – literal and metaphorical – makes him a fool, well he’s the world’s biggest fool, and he’ll probably endure the consequences of delaying the inevitable later on.

            “Wait here,” he instructs, suddenly moving again much to her displeasure. “I’m going to find another way out.”

            “I didn’t think there was one.”

            “There isn’t, but I can’t just _sit_ here and wait for you to die,” he near enough yells. “I have to do something, Elena, otherwise I’m going to go crazy.”

            Elena watches him solemnly, and then much to his surprise rises to her feet, stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips softly against his. He doesn’t react at first, and her lips are gone before he can return the favour, and then she’s sitting back down, looking slightly dazed and touching her lips as if she cannot believe she made so bold a move.

            He contemplates asking what her motivations behind that kiss are, and whether it means anything or not, but those kinds of questions usually produces answers which cut him to the bone, so he turns and walks away, resisting the urge to trace where her lips had been. Her kisses leave marks that don’t fade away until another one comes and burns away its predecessor. Her assault on his lips in Denver had staggered him, each one as hot as fire against his skin, and he’d never been more aroused in that moment – certainly not around her anyway.

            She’s always been a firecracker – he’s known that from day one. Meeting her first doesn’t particularly take pride of place in the hall of victories he has over Stefan, but he’s kind of glad he got that one night where there’d been no Stefan in the picture. She’d practically been flirting with him that night, and he’d let her, admittedly enjoying it because it was the closest to Katherine he’d been since 1864. Okay, Elena wasn’t Katherine in any shape or form, but his younger self hadn’t known that. In fact, at one point he’d held a theory that Katherine had escaped the tomb somehow, and was posing as a high school student, although he couldn’t summon any plausible reasons why she would do that. But then her parents had died, and suddenly her smile had gone, and he’d watched long after he’d swarmed back into town for any traces of Katherine, but he’d had to conclude she was the real article: a genuine Katherine look alike with a completely different personality.

            He circles the entire tomb, committing each part of it to memory. He slams his hand against certain parts of the wall that feels weak, but nothing gives way, which shouldn’t surprise him. Emily’s spell had meant if it could withstand a fire, it could withstand a vampire’s brute strength.

            But that doesn’t stop him from combing every inch of the place, seeking a secret passageway of some kind or a hidden exit that could spell their way out.

            Minutes turn into hours, and he’s circled himself dozens of times. He’s pretty close to breaking, but he pulls himself together. Occasionally he’ll attempt to move the seal again, but that proves futile. He then becomes aware of how little blood he’s had in the past forty eight hours, and he becomes aware of his own state of mind, which is part anxiety, part rage. He hates not being in control of any given situation, particularly one where the danger falls on someone he actually cares about.

            “Damon – “

            Her voice is a fraction of what it should be; he can hear the listlessness, and knows the worst is about to come. He speeds back over to her, locking his hand with hers, stroking the hair from her face only to pull it back when it comes back coated with sweat.

            “It feels like the flu,” she jokes weakly. 

            He watches her, suddenly unable to stand on his own feet because he feels the fear and agony start to tear him apart. He’s not going to be able to do this: watch her deteriorate to the point where she doesn’t even recognise who he is, but neither can he picture driving a stake through her heart, feeling her body give a last guttural shudder before turning still forever. It’s the very definition of a catch-22 situation, and either way he loses.

            She lurches forwards, coughing violently, and he rubs her back, not really sure what else he can do. Without thinking, he bites into his wrist, extending it in her direction.

            “What are you doing?”

            “I don’t know,” he confesses. “It’s not even the real stuff, so it won’t fulfil you like human blood can, but I just – I don’t know what else I can do.”

            Tentatively, her fingers lock around his wrist, bringing it closer towards her mouth. Her lips pull back, and her teeth are exposed, and she bites down without hesitation, drinking his blood with fervour that in another time, another place would be completely erotic. He gets no satisfaction from this, not like the last time, and there’s no pleasure from it either. Her teeth just gnaw and grind at his flesh so that it’s painful to endure, but he lets her drink her fill. Vampire blood to other vampires can sustain them – here he remembers Mikael with a sort of vague nostalgia for the days when he was supposed to be the biggest threat, before, ironically, he then got taken out by his own son – but it’s not a lifestyle that accommodates every vampire. 

            When she releases his wrist with a satisfied smack of her lips, he resists the urge to smile because she certainly wasn’t like this after their last blood drinking session. After the blood lust had disappeared, she’d scarpered like a frightened bunny, the guilt overwhelming her even though she had nothing to feel guilty about, because it was entirely his fault for letting them both get caught up in that moment.

            “Feel better?” he asks, breaking the tension with awkward humour because that’s what he does.

            “A little.” It’s a lie, but heaven knows it’s a beautiful one; he would love to believe for one moment he’s made a tangible difference to her situation. “Thanks.”

            “No problem.”

            The conversation between them dies after that. What can you really say in this situation without making it sound like you’re saying goodbye? He doesn’t want to act any differently around her than normal, but normal to them is fighting; it’s exchanging harsh words, exposing humiliating truths, sharing confessions of love and affection wrapped up in violent gestures. They don’t do romantic, even in tender moments, but god he would love to try someday, even if he fails at it completely. He can imagine, when she concedes to his charms, them lying side by side under the stars, not exchanging mushy words but observing the universe and their place in it. He envisions, after a passionate show between their bodies, her rolling onto her side, utterly breathless, still chanting his name under her breath, him impulsively grabbing her hand as a reminder that this is real. He wants all of it, and forever chastises himself for hoping for one second his dreams of that life would come to fruition.

            Better to accept a cold truth than believe a beautiful lie.

            On the subject of Elena, he realises there’s a chance she’ll be coughing up the blood he gave her, so it was a pointless gesture all in all, but if it gives her even one moment of comfort, it’ll have been worth it.

            He watches her as she sinks back into a fitful slumber. Sometimes she’ll mutter and moan, her back occasionally arching upwards as if she’s being controlled by a puppeteer, and the sweat pours down her skin like she’s stuck her head under a tap. He unbuttons and shrugs off his shirt, immune to the cold, and bunches it up so he can press it against her face to absorb some of the sweat.

            It has an unexpected effect, however, as her eyes soon open, flashing to his bare chest, and her hands reach out to explore it, her fingers tracing circles around his abs, and though it’s dark, he cannot mistake the glint of lust in her eyes for anything else.

            “Did I ever tell you how good you look not wearing a shirt?” she murmurs, her hands wandering lower and lower until he catches them, astonishment momentarily robbing him of speech.

            “You’re delirious,” he stutters.

            “Am I, or is this the one clear decision I’ve made in the last – I dunno – year of my life?”

            “Elena – “ his resolve weakens around her fairly quickly, he’s come to realise, “-you’re not yourself right now. What if Stefan leads the cavalry charge to come break us out, and he finds you seducing me?” He gives her a lopsided smile. “Not that I’ve not _imagined_ that scenario before, I just pictured it in entirely different circumstances.”

            “No.” She’s adamant. “I’m dying, Damon. Let’s not tiptoe around the subject any longer. I suppose if anything this has made me realise what I sort of knew since Denver.” His eyebrows skyrocket at the resurrection of that memory. “I have feelings for you – intense feelings – and though I’m not sure what they even are just yet, it hasn’t stopped me thinking about you when I shouldn’t be thinking about you.”

            “Don’t make me a deathbed fuck, Elena – I beg you...”

            She presses her lips against his fiercely, once, twice, and then a third time, but he doesn’t respond. This isn’t the moment for this kind of behaviour. She’s clearly not in her right mind otherwise by now she would’ve had an attack of conscience and pulled away. But now, her lips lower to his collarbone, her tongue tracing lazy patterns there, almost as if she’s marking him as hers.

            His eyes roll back, but still he remains adamant, although it’s taking all his willpower to stop himself from giving into that carnal desire.

            “Stop,” he implores. “I’m thinking about _you_ , Elena...”

            “Maybe that’s the real problem then. We think too much,” she all but snarls at him. “I over-think everything, and where does it get me? I mess up plans because of it. I lose people I love because of it. I’m done thinking. I’m acting on what I _want._ I’m not going to pretend you’re the better choice, Damon, because you’re not. If I’m going to die, it’s not going to be as the scared Elena who didn’t know what she wanted, or how she felt.”

            She begins attacking his skin again, and it’s getting harder and harder to stop her from doing what she’s doing right now. Her teeth graze his earlobe, sending shoots of pleasure down his spine, towards a southern area he’s all too familiar with. He pleads with her to stop, but she ignores him, her hands trailing down his bare arms, pushing her chest against his.

            “What about Stefan?”

            She huffs and sits back, evidently done with her little display.

            “Would it help if I told you the fact I’m not even thinking about him right now should give you a clue as to where we’re at right now?”

            “If this,” he gestures around him, “wasn’t happening right now, there is absolutely _no way_ you and I would be having this conversation. Don’t get snippy with me for having doubts about where this sudden behaviour is coming from when you’ve been hot and cold with me long before you transitioned into a vampire!”

            “Maybe if none of this was happening I would’ve carried on with Stefan for a while, yes, you’re probably right,” she agrees. “But ever since I turned, my feelings for you have been getting stronger to the point where it’s getting harder and harder to ignore them. Stefan is supposed to be my – and this quote comes from Caroline here – “epic love”, and I’m supposed to be with him forever. But I can’t shake you, Damon, and that’s the god-to-honest truth. I don’t want to do the whole deathbed confession thing, but you might as well know the truth.” She pauses, and he finds he’s hooked on her every word. “I think I’m falling in love with you, and I’m not sure how to deal with that, and that’s why, as you so aptly put it, I’ve been ‘hot and cold’ with you for so long!”

            Every rational part of him disappears with her words. Logic ceases to matter to him. Sensitivity is a foreign concept to him. He attacks her lips with such fervour and heartache that he thinks this might be the most powerful kiss he’s ever been a part of. One arm snakes around his neck, pulling him closer, and his hands wander, creeping down her back, sweeping up her back, feeling and caressing the skin there, and all he can think about is that there’s no way he’s going to be able to restrain himself now, circumstances be damned. 

            “Just – Just let me have this moment, Damon,” she breathes – pleads, when he pauses to snatch a breath, hesitancy still lingering in the corners of his eyes. “I want to do this before I lose myself completely and end up saying something that breaks your heart. I need you to know this is real.”

            He’ll take a moment later on to absorb her words, but right now there’s a need that needs fulfilling. Already shirtless, he works on loosening his jeans, tossing the belt aside. With trembling hands fully aware of what they’re about to do, he reaches for her top and tugs it over her head with her assistance. While this is going on, their lips crash together, and it’s not romantic, and it’s not poetic. Their tongues don’t duel playfully, or dance around each other, but rather grope like blind men in the dark, reaching for something neither of them can explain. It’s a messy affair, with hands tangled in hair and hips bucking wildly against the other, and all the while he’s waiting for something to snap her out of this, for her to shrug him off and yell at him for taking advantage of her.

            But she surprises him, as she has a tendency to do so.

            Sensing his insecurity, she lays one hand on either side of his face, directing hers towards his, guiding the direction of their kiss. Pants and moans fills the area, and it only serves to arouse them both more.

            Once they’re released from their clothes, he explores every part of her body with the eagerness of a teenager. Rather than going for the obvious places straight away, he finds a spot on the back of her neck which, when caressed lightly, he discovers makes her arch her back, almost mewling with pleasure. One hand cups one breast, fondling it, his mouth hovering over it, promising sweet delights, but tempting only, much to her frustration, while the other snakes down her back to guide her towards him, and while he’s caressing and touching and coaxing such sweet sounds from her lips, she’s recreating that same story on his own body.

            He hasn’t the breath – or heart - to pull himself away, and he almost hates himself for it. This feels so right, yet it’s happening under the worst set of circumstances. Now his usual attitude is to go ‘fuck it’ and do it anyway, but he’s never been like that with her. He’s restrained a lot of himself around her, and he wonders if she even realises how much of himself he hides away.

            _No more._

            If she wants this to happen, she’s going to see the real him – _all of him_.

            He draws back his lips, releasing an intense snarl that has her frozen for a moment. His fangs reveal themselves, his entire face frozen in the demonic expression women like her have died screaming at. He hovers over her, ducking his face into the crook of her neck, nipping at her skin without breaking it. Then, she takes over, flipping him onto his back so fast, they fall onto the floor, and he sees her flourish her own fangs, and he growls with approval as they join lips again.

            There’s no foreplay; god knows they’ve teased and taunted each other long enough without even realising that’s what they’re doing. He intends to take it slow, to savour every movement they make together, but she makes that a difficult task because her hips buck impatiently against his, and eventually he can’t resist her any longer and they join in the most intimate of ways, his lips glued to the point where neck and shoulders join. It’s a magical feeling, to be joined in this ways to the person you feel connected to on every sort of level, and he feels so giddy, it’s like he’s on top of the world.

            Her moans are low breaths with a hint of plea to them; his are grunts, asserting dominance, yet conceding defeat in the wake of her gaze as she opens her eyes for the briefest of moments during the crux of it all. She strokes and caresses his bare skin, occasionally gripping him like she’s afraid she’ll be carried away by the slightest of breezes, and his hand makes its way to her hair, losing itself in the silky waves that form so naturally. They are tangled in every sort of way, her legs locked with his, their backs arching and falling like the waves along an ocean, his thrusts matching her bucking motions in a rhythm that guarantees satisfaction.

            A final simultaneous sigh, borderline groan, escapes their lips, and she relaxes onto his chest, her body still shaking slightly. He kisses the top of her head, and rolls to the side, pulling out of her with tremendous care. They dress silently, like it’s a cheap one night stand, but it’s so much more than that, and the reality of the situation hits them both hard.

            It’s a goodbye.

            He doesn’t remember acknowledging the first tear to trickle down his face, but all he does know is it doesn’t end there; the rest tumble gracelessly down his cheeks and, despite his pride, he can’t bring himself to wipe them away. 


	3. Chapter 3

She deteriorates quickly after that.

            He alternates between checking to see if the seal can be opened and checking up on her. At some points, she bolts upwards, her eyes wide and unseeing, and she grasps his arm, an unspoken question framed on her lips, before eventually she succumbs into another bout of fitful slumber.

            Sometimes he’ll twirl the stake between his fingers, trying to pluck up the courage to drive it through her heart in a moment where she’s completely unaware. He contemplates giving her a pleasant dream, but what exactly constitutes as her happy place? He’s surprised by how little he actually knows her. He knows how she thinks, and who she is, but all the little filler stuff – the stuff that makes up human Elena – is what Stefan knows not himself, because he’s never bothered to ask before. He knows the date of her birthday, who her select friends are, and that’s about it. Anyone can amass that information. It’s the trivia like her favourite music, her best memories, her worst moments that not everyone gets the privilege of knowing. He thinks he’s spent more time making her life miserable than actually getting to know her, and the thought makes him feel sick.

            “You’re thinking too hard,” she mumbles, catching his attention.

            He’s sat next to her while she lies across a stone bench, her hands draped across her front like she’s already been laid to rest.

            “I have a lot to contemplate – sue me,” he fires back.

            “Like what?”

            _Like how I’m going to break the news to Stefan, and Bonnie, and Caroline, and all your other juvenile friends? Because I assume it’s not going to take those brain dead morons long enough to realise we’re missing and come looking for us, and work out a way of getting us both out, only the rate you’re deteriorating, their efforts might well be in vain. Or, how about how I’m going to dispose of your body if we’re trapped in here for all eternity, because I’m not going to want to look at you again because it’ll hurt too damn much?_

That’s what he wants to respond with, but instead comes out with, “Like how much of a thorn you’ve been in my side since day one.”

            It hurts to say it, but he figures if he can make her hate him, if he can ruin whatever it is they’ve built over these years, it’ll make it easier to let her go. Of course he’ll punish himself afterwards, and for centuries to come, but it’s his only long term plan in coping with her loss.

            “You’re lying.” Trouble with that plan, however, is that she can see right past his bullshit, even while dying. “You’re such a bad liar.”

            “I’m not lying.” Might as well attempt his doomed-to-fail plan again. “You’re a pain in my ass, Elena. I wish I’d never met you. You’ve turned me into a weak, pathetic, pitiful excuse for a vampire, and I loathe you for it.”

            She chuckles.

            Odd reaction, but he waits, thinking maybe she’ll break down halfway through and he will have successfully broken her once and for all.

            “You’re an ass, Damon,” she murmurs, stirring briefly to get into a more comfortable position. “Let me amend your statement, shall I? What you really meant to say was: _you’re a pain in my ass, Elena, but I’m so glad I met you. You’ve turned me into a stronger, better, more compassionate vampire, and I love you for it._ ”

            He’s utterly miserable at the fact she’s right, but he refuses to accept defeat.

            How funny then, and also bizarre, he’s accepted her death as inevitability, but cannot concede defeat on their (last) petty squabble. But it sings true to his character, and he’s determined not to become a sobbing wreck because the girl he loves is fading away and all he can do is sit and watch, like some morbid voyeur with nothing better to do with his time.

            “Believe what you want, Elena.” His tone is one of resignation, of weariness, of a man who’s walked a thousand roads and not found a home along any of them. “I don’t care anymore. I’ll be glad when you’re gone.”

            Now that last remark might just have carried some weight had it not been for the stupid inflection at the end caused by barely suppressed emotion. Damon curses himself for being this weak willed, but he can’t help it around Elena.

            “You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for,” she tells him, her voice trailing off as she succumbs to another bout of drowsiness.

            He wants to deny it, but a part of him can’t help but believe – or at least want to believe – she’s right. He’s been the bad guy for so long, it’s all he knows how to be anymore, so for someone to come along and tell him he’s a better guy than he’ll ever know, it’s worth more to him than he can ever say, particularly when all he’s ever heard from the mouths of the people closest to him is that he’s a monster, a disappointment of a son, and second best to his own younger brother.

            More hours pass, and she’s holding up well. No delusions, no random bursts of violence, no wild behaviour whatsoever. In fact, he’s too uneasy with this calmness. It makes him think any minute now it’ll all turn, and he’ll be left fending off a feral, delusional, violent Elena who happens to be stuck in a frame of mind he can’t just snap her out of.

            Her breathing becomes raspier though, that much he’s noticed. She’s paler in complexion, drenched in sweat, and much weaker so that little motions, like raising her hand for example, are clearly harder to do. He remembers that stage all too well, how mortified he’d been to have reached a stage where he could barely hold his own head up, and had been propped up against Elena like he’d been a mere doll. But her patience, understanding and forgiveness had somehow made that experience the tiniest bit durable, though the pity kiss doesn’t really rank in his mind as a memorable part of that experience.

            He turns away for one second, only to look back and realise she’s disappeared.

            It isn’t hard to find her, but when he does, she looks bedraggled. Her hair, damp from the sweat, clings to her face; her eyes, wild and bright, dart about like frightened animals. Her fingers claw and scratch at her clothing, but not hard enough that she succeeds in tearing them to shreds. She bites her bottom lip so hard, blood is drawn, and this is what triggers her vampire face to be displayed.

            “People die around you,” she snarls, and storms over to him, lifting back her hand to strike him across the face, but he intercepts it, twisting her so she’s locked in his grip, which she isn’t happy about, and then, just like that, her mood flips, and she’s breaking down in his arms, sobbing hysterically over and over, “People die around _me!_ Everyone dies on me – around me – and it isn’t _fair!_ It’s not fair...”

            She repeats these words over and over, until his heart can’t take this new level of martyrdom she’s reached, where she takes every death, every loss she’s suffered and blames herself for them. She buries her face into his chest, locking her arms around him tightly, and shakes so hard, his own body rocks with the weight of her own grief.

            Her mood flips again, and once she stops crying, she pulls away from him, contempt glazing her expression, and this time he doesn’t stop her when her hand reaches out to strike him hard, because he deserves it (and much more).

            “You’re an irredeemable monster,” she tells him, matter-of-factly, and his eyes narrow infinitesimally (bearing the worst of the pain), but he lets her unleash her hatred.

            Nothing can diminish the sheer incredulity of getting to make love to the woman he’s hopelessly in love with, and he takes comfort – and strength – in the fact that in one of her moments of clarity, she’d confessed she was falling in love with him, and proved that by letting him worship her body in only way he knows how. He still remembers the sounds she’d emitted when he’d ran a finger inches away from where she’d been craving his touch most, his mischievous grin eliciting frustrated groans from her mouth, and he’d almost had the upper hand until the little minx had reached down, given a certain part of his anatomy a tight squeeze, and all of a sudden, he’d folded before her, like a weak hand at poker.

            “Where’s Stefan? I need Stefan,” she suddenly cries, and that moment of euphoria, of wilful ignorance at her harsh words, disappears just like that.

            His expression crumbles before it’s replaced with an impassive expression.

            A surefire way to kill the mood?

            Mentioning his brother.

            No matter what frame of mind she’s in right now, the fact is she’s still technically with his brother, and though he’s hardly the poster boy for adhering to a moral code, he also knows he doesn’t want to start a relationship on the ashes of the old one. He won’t be able to compete with Stefan, he knows that, but he can love her with every ounce of passion in his heart, and that’s all he can really bring to the table. He can’t promise to save her friends whenever she asks him to (but he’ll do it anyway, you know, providing saving their lives doesn’t cost him Elena’s in return), and he can’t promise to respect all her decisions, but he can promise to love her for as long as she’ll have him.

            He deflates, watching her search the tomb aimlessly, Stefan’s name on her tongue before she collapses and weeps. He doesn’t go to her. His brand of comfort isn’t what she needs right now, maybe it’s not what she ever needs, but he longs to give it to her all the same.

            He walks away, lost in his own thoughts, her cries echoing around him, following him into the heart of the darkness. Occasionally, he’ll pause, as though he’s about to turn back and hold her, but he pushes back that urge and lets her sob out his brother’s name, and it breaks his heart, because on top of her dying, he has to deal with the fact that he had a taste of perfection, only for it to be tinged with doubt, and suddenly all those certain feelings that she initiated that show of passion because she’s in love with him just evaporate.

            Plan B, in lieu of any other option, is to avoid her for as long as possible. He can’t hold her, can’t touch her without those repressed emotions bubbling at the surface. He could turn it all off, watch her crumble before him without any despair or devastation whatsoever, but no matter how she hurts him, or what she uses to hurt him, that’s a low blow even he won’t stoop to.

            Damon’s pretty damn sure this is the worst he’s felt in a long time, and it only gets worse when he hears her body suddenly drop, and then he’s racing against everything to find her lying face down on the ground, barely moving. With trembling hands, he picks her up, tucks her against his chest, and softly strokes her head. From his back pocket – he doesn’t know why he stuck it there, easy access he supposes – he retrieves the stake, trembling as he poises it over her heart, tears building up behind the ocean glaze of his eyes.

            He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, entering her mind, finding the various memories she’s currently visiting, and that’s when he realises where her happy place is, and he begins to construct it in his own mind before planting it in hers.

            _He watches through the window of the Gilbert house as she slowly walks around it, taking in everything with a deep look of sadness. He remains out of sight, hiding away every time her eyes fall his way. This isn’t his moment to be a part of, but he kind of has to be here to make it happen._

_A dark haired woman with a maternal presence you could pick up in a heartbeat swans in, embracing Elena before she’s even had time to recognise another presence._

_“Mom?” she gasps, tears swimming down her face, instantly triggered by the sight of her mother standing there before her._

_“Look at my baby girl,” Miranda speaks softly, her tone filled with wonder and, at the same time, sadness. “Look at the young lady you’ve become.” She plants a soft kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “Baby, what must be going through that head of yours?”_

_“I’m – I’m confused,” Elena chokes out. “I don’t know how you’re here right now.”_

_“You already know the answer to that, Elena.”_

_He has a front row seat to the moment clarity dawns across her face._

_“I’m dying, aren’t I?”_

_Miranda merely envelopes her daughter in her arms, kissing the top of her head._

_“You’ve been so brave, so strong, Elena,” she whispers. “I know you have some fight in you left, but it’s also okay if you want to call it a day.”_

_“I didn’t want to disappoint you mommy,” Elena says, suddenly starting to cry. “I –d-didn’t want to become a v-vampire, b-but I d-did, and I know you...”_

_“You think I wasn’t right there beside you every time you faced such evil? You think I wasn’t right there cheering you on when you defeated it?” Miranda shakes her head, and Damon thinks he might see where Elena gets her love and compassion from, and loves her even more for it. “Elena, baby, evil comes from doing evil things without remorse or compassion. You’ve had both as a human and a vampire, and I have never stopped being proud of you, you hear me?”_

_“Your mother’s right, Elena,” comes the gruff tones of a man Damon assumes to be Elena’s father._

_“Daddy?” Elena whispers, before rushing into his arms, sobbing into his shirt._

_“Hey, princess,” he murmurs against her hair. “You don’t have to fight anymore. We know how hard it’s been on you.”_

_“I can’t stop fighting though,” Elena insists, pulling back, suddenly looking stricken. “Jeremy... he’ll have no one...”_

_“Jeremy will be fine,” Miranda assures her, standing beside her husband, looking her daughter with such affection it pulls at Damon’s heartstrings. “You’ve both been so strong for each other, and he’s been so lucky to have you protecting him, but I think you’ve done a good enough job that he can survive on his own now.”_

_“Somebody having a pity party over here, ‘cause I want in,” chimes another familiar voice._

_Elena stares at the sight of Jenna, who walks casually in, grinning widely, before embracing her niece tightly._

_“Jenna,” Elena begins to babble, “I’m_ so _sorry...”_

_“Save it. Don’t wanna hear it,” Jenna insists, holding her hand up. “You did a hell of a better job at managing Ric and Jeremy then I ever did.”_

_“Somebody call?” Alaric pops his head through the door, and Damon aches to go inside, to be reunited with his friend, but this isn’t his time. “Where’s the Bourbon?”_

_“I’m cutting you off,” Jenna informs him, chuckling at his expression. “You’re one step away from being an alcoholic.”_

_“Yeah? And?” He kisses her lightly on the lips. “You like my Bourbon flavoured kisses.”_

_Jenna blushes._

_“I apologise for him. He has issues,” she jokes, causing everyone in the room to laugh._

_Elena wraps her nimble arms around Alaric’s neck, mumbling apologises he immediately dismisses._

_“You don’t have to be sorry about anything, Elena. As your ex-teacher, I advise you against repeating yourself, otherwise detention may be on the cards,” he warns her good-humouredly._

_“But I’m the reason you’re all dead,” she points out._

_From the sidelines, Damon aches to tell her she couldn’t be more wrong, but this is one battle she’ll have to overcome herself. All the persuasive arguments in the world aren’t going to convince her she isn’t to blame for all the losses she’s suffered; she’ll have to reach that conclusion by her own means._

_“You can’t help the curveballs life throws at you, honey,” her mom reasons. “I know you’ve been at war with yourself for a long time, but put down the ammunition, and make peace, because you can’t move on with us without it.”_

_Elena sniffs, accepting this truth, and dissolves into more tears at being surrounded by the people she loves._

_At this point, Damon rises fluently to his feet, shoving his hands into his pocket before walking away._

_He can’t intrude on this moment anymore._

_Hours dance by, until she finally finds him, sitting on her front lawn, counting the clouds in the sky for lack of anything better to do._

_“Hi,” she says finally._

_He turns to look at her, blue eyes scorching brown._

_“Hi,” he returns, unsmiling._

_“You did all this for me.” It’s not a question but a fact. “This is a dream.”_

_“For as long as you want,” he assures her with a tight smile._

_She sits beside him, her hand resting by his._

_“Why didn’t you come inside, Damon?”_

_“I wanted to give you a moment with your family.”_

_“So come on in now. I’ve had my moment with them.”_

_“I – I can’t come in.”_

_“What?”_

_He gazes at her solemnly._

_“I wanted to give you a moment with your family that wasn’t tainted with vampires. I wanted to give your home the security it should’ve had all along, so I made it so that I’d never been invited into your home.” He smiles grimly. “The way it should’ve been all along.”_

_“Damon...”_

_“I ruined your life, Elena. I know you’re determined to see the good in everyone, but I did. I turned Vicki because I was bored, I was responsible for Bonnie’s grandmother dying, I snapped your brother’s neck because I was pissed off... There’s a long list of reasons I’m wrong for you, and those are just the top three.”_

_“See, the funny thing about that is you don’t get to decide what’s good for me and what isn’t,” Elena retorts, suddenly angry. “Yes, you’ve been a terrible person, but you’ve also been good. The world isn’t as black and white as you make it out to be. People do terrible things – that doesn’t make them terrible people. You’re the reason I’m alive aren’t you?”_

_“You’re a_ vampire _, Elena. And yes I might blame you being one on Stefan’s stupidity, but it’s my blood that made you turn! I have to live with what you are just as much as my brother! You were supposed to be human and happy, until the day you decided you wanted otherwise! That was a choice you were supposed to get to make!”_

_She exhales sharply, agony pooling in the depths of her eyes. He looks away, hating himself for ruining her moment with her family, but, once again, she takes him by surprise._

_“I want to show you something,” she says slowly. “But to do that, you need to come in.”_

_“I can’t – “_

_“I’m inviting you in,” she says meaningfully. “And this time it’s my choice.”_

_She presses her lips against his cheek, lingering there for a second before she tugs him to his feet, and he follows her like a lost puppy - nothing’s changed there then. She takes him inside the house, straight up the stairs, and this time no witty remarks fall from his lips implying she has less than honourable intentions with him up in her room._

_She opens her door, pulls him into her room, and immediately delves into her drawers, searching for a few moments before retrieving a piece of paper which she thrusts into his hands._

_He barely glances at it, his immediate response one of confusion._

_“And here I thought you’d dragged me up here to do lewd activities not suitable for parents’ eyes,” he leers, before he resumes looking melancholy. “What is this?”_

_“The list every girl makes at some point during her life. It’s not a bucket list exactly, but a list of all the things I wanted to accomplish by the time I was, say, thirty,” she patiently explains. “Look at the last one.”_

_He scans the list out of a vague sort of curiosity. Some contain trivial nonsense, like swimming with dolphins, publishing a book, the kind of stuff most people put on a list. It He tries to ignore the little hearts next to the ones she really wanted to accomplish (and will never get to), because this whole exercise is giving him a migraine, but he scans the list all the same, his eyes – and heart – freezing at the last one on the list._

#20 – Fall in love with someone who is passionate, adventurous, maybe even a little dangerous, and never let him go.

_He forgets how to breathe. He peers through guarded eyes at her expression, and she smiles, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly._

_“You might’ve compelled me to forget everything you said that night, but that doesn’t mean I forgot what it was I really wanted out of life. The first night me and Stefan talked, he guessed that my relationship with Matt ended because it wasn’t passionate enough, and it triggered something... a feeling I guess... and that was when I wrote that last one down. I didn’t know if Stefan was going to be that guy, but I hoped all the same.” She takes a deep breath, before continuing, “And then you came along. When I saw who you really were, I hated you, I’m not going to lie. And I was afraid. Because you saw through me, cutting past the bullshit I used to tell myself to get through the day, and that terrified me. You knew me better than I knew myself, and I kept asking myself how that was even possible when you’d just breezed into town, knowing next to nothing about my life. And now I know. Whether it was a chance encounter in the middle of the night, or at the Boarding House as I waited for Stefan to come home, we were meant to meet. We’re both as stubborn as hell, and we both crave passion, that feeling of imminent danger to remind us that being alive really is the most beautiful thing in the world. We’re both frighteningly similar, and different as hell. The fact we don’t fit beautifully together like Stefan and I did is why we work. We have to work to fit together; we have to push past the bad stuff to get to the good stuff.” She cradles his head in her hands. “Our love story was never meant to be easy. It was meant to be hard work so one day we could reach a point where we could look back and think that it was worth the effort.”_

_Her words will be the death of him. With a guttural cry, he closes the gap between them, attacking her lips with such fervour, she’s quick to respond. She tugs playfully at his dark locks, matching his dark soul, and it triggers a sound he’s never made before in front of a woman – he actually whimpers. Then again, it’s no surprise; the hold she has over him is something anyone can see, and he can’t really complain about it._

_Despite joking about it, he never intends for them to go much further than a kiss, but she gives him no choice the moment she jumps up and wraps her legs around his waist, her body pushing against his in a way which has his body reacting immediately. Steering her towards the bed, he lightly sets her down, her legs making no move to detach themselves from his._

_“Elena,” he moans in between kisses, “if we’re gonna do this, you kinda have to let go at some point.”_

_“Remember what my last wish was on the list?” she teases between breaths. “To fall in love with a passionate, adventurous and dangerous man, and never let him go?”_

_“I didn’t think you were being literal.”_

_She trails her tongue around his jaw, smirking all the while._

_“Shut up and just go with it,” she orders, nipping at his jaw until he releases a growl that has a pleasant shudder rattling her body._

_“Wait,” he suddenly pants, remembering where they are. “Won’t your family - ?”_

_“I’ve told them I need some time to talk to you,” she explains, softly grazing his cheek with her hand. “While my parents were none the wiser about what that really meant, Jenna and Ric thankfully knew better and so got them out of the house for a while. But they’ll be back after...”_

_His heart breaks in two._

_“...after we say goodbye,” he finishes despondently._

_Her lips press lightly against his, but with them, a chaste kiss quickly becomes something more. Hands hook around clothing, almost tearing them off, as if they are barriers; fingers curl in the depths of each other’s hair; tongues duel fiercely, surrendering to the passion. He pulls her as close to his body as he possibly can get, running his fingers down her skin, memorising it all. His eyes lock onto hers, the love and affection rooted there unmistakeable, quickly glazed by a heated lust as her hands roam south, and his hips start bucking wildly, out of control by her touch._

_She leads everything, guiding him into her, setting the pace, the rhythm, and he complies, only taking a detour when his own mind insists on slowing it all down so he can savour it all. It’s her turn to comply, and hot kisses soon melt into tender ones, peppering each other’s skin as their bodies continue to arch up and down, their moans soft until they reach their climaxes, and then those moans turn into guttural sighs, and her head rests across his head, her hands playing with his chiselled chest._

_They wait a while before speaking, still caught up with the sheer passion they can ignite together, even in the confinements of a dream._

_“I love you,” he breathes, inhaling her scent for what could be the last time._

Back in the confinements of the tomb, Damon feels Elena stir in his arms, a lazy smile twisting her lips. He lowers the stake until it’s touching her chest, right above the area where her heart is.

            He knows the tears will come, but right now he has to put his time and energy into making these last moments as painless as he can for her.

            Even in the dark, with flushed skin and dirt powdering her face, she’s never looked more beautiful to him.

            _She opens one lazy eye, grinning at him._

_“I know. I love you too. I just wish I’d gotten chance to prove that to you.”_

_“What am I going to do without you?” his voice breaks, giving away the fact he’s already wrecked with misery, “I have no clue how I’m going to go on...”_

_“You’ll go on.” She closes her eyes, half drifting off. “You’ll leave Mystic Falls, because I somehow doubt you’ll stick around to be an emotional rock for your brother or my friends. You’ll travel the world for a bit, drinking and sleeping around, because that’s just what you do when you’re facing an emotion you can’t deal with You’ll pretend you’re over me, but you know it’ll be a lie, and you’ll keep drinking and having meaningless sex until the hurt goes away. And then one day there’ll come a point where the pain just... well...it’ll still hurt, but it won’t be that bad. And you’ll have moved on without even realising it.”_

_“Provided I even get out of the tomb,” he points out._

_“You will.” She yawns. “You underestimate the lengths people will go to save you, you know.”_

_“By people, of course, you mean my brother. Somehow I doubt your little band of idiotic do-gooders will be busting their balls to free me. You, definitely, but not me.”_

_But she doesn’t reply. He stares at her sleeping figure, taking in the sight of her in all her majestic glory, his fingers sweeping back her hair so that he has room to plant a tender kiss there, mirroring the night he first told her he loved her. He’d give anything to back to that night, just to satisfy his own curiosity by not compelling her to forget to gage her reaction to his confession. Maybe she would’ve broken his heart, maybe she might’ve confessed having feelings for him too... he’ll never know either way._

He mentally prepares himself for the absolute worst, but as luck would have it, there’s a sound he almost weeps with joy at hearing: _the seal moving._

“Damon?” a familiar voice calls, sounding panicked. “Elena?”

            Damon picks up Elena and runs to the door, where an anxious Stefan waits, looking more than relieved to see the pair of them alive.

            “You have either the best timing in the world, or you just like making your rescue attempts as dramatic as possible,” Damon snaps, but there’s nothing but sheer relief in his voice. “Please tell me I don’t have to get you up to speed, and that what you’re holding there is a phial of Klaus’ blood.”

            “Yes. We managed to get the hunter to confess to what he’d done, it just took a bit of time.” Stefan pales at the sight of Elena. “Is she...?”

            “Give me the damn blood, Stefan, and I’ll answer your question,” Damon barks. “We can play catch up later.”

            Stefan passes the phial wordlessly to Damon, and he carries Elena out of the tomb, collapsing just outside, weakened by the lack of blood yet nowhere near the point of desiccation. He doesn’t question how his brother managed to persuade Klaus to give up his precious blood for a doppelganger that means nothing to him anymore, and he suspects there’s more to this story than his brother lets on, but he concentrates on saving Elena’s life; he can interrogate Stefan later on, once he and Elena are back to full strength.

            He registers the fact his brother is still babbling in his direction, but he tunes him out, taking the phial and pressing it to her lips, letting the blood spill past her lips. Ignorant of how it’ll look to his brother, he rocks her gently, murmuring incoherent prayers under his breath.

            A minute passes by and nothing happens.

            “Come on, Elena,” he says encouragingly, shaking her gently. “Drink it all up, there’s a good girl.”

            He waits with baited breath for her eyes to flicker open, for the relief to pool in her eyes at being given a second chance, for her breathing to take on a healthier tone, but time drags on, giving him none of these things.

            “Damon...”

            “She’s just screwing with us, Stefan,” Damon snaps. “Give her a moment.”

            “I don’t think...”

            “Shut up! Let the woman breathe! You’re suffocating her!” he yells, without even realising her face is pressed against his chest so hard, the irony of his own words doesn’t dawn on him until seconds later.

            Trembling fingers peel her lips apart.

            His heart drops.

            The blood remains in a pool by her teeth, so with some effort, he angles her body so she can swallow it, but he can’t feel the swallowing motion taking place.

            His eyes search out Stefan’s, whose hollow expression should be the final piece in the puzzle, but still he dwells in the world of denial. Their roles have almost reversed, like he’s the young brother begging his older brother for answers he cannot give. His grip on Elena loosens, and then she’s no longer in his arms altogether, and still he registers absolutely nothing.

            And then a guilty thought slams into him, bringing him to life.

            He hadn’t staked her. She’d died in absolute agony, although admittedly her mind was elsewhere, wrapped in post-coital bliss, so maybe he had done her some good after all.

            A strange sound suddenly fills the chamber, a cross between a roar and a whimper that magnified sounds absolutely terrifying. Clarity doesn’t dawn on him until he feels Stefan’s hand clamp tightly on his shoulder.

            It’s _him_ making those sounds.

            It’s the sound of his heart breaking.

            And there’s absolutely no recovering from something like that at all.

 

...

 

            She watches him as he staggers to bed, his expression utterly broken. Her heart aches to touch him. He strips himself of his shirt and then falls flat down on the bed, sprawled out, breathing in and out slowly.

            She walks forwards, sits on the bed, aware he can’t see her, but she watches him, there for him even when he doesn’t know it. He’s stacked up on blood bags, angrily downing them one after the other like shots, as if drinking a substantial amount of blood will do the same job as alcohol, and she’s been by his side from the moment her eyes opened and she realised it wasn’t in the world he’d seamlessly created for her.

            Because she knows her heart is tied to him now, so moving on and finding peace is no longer an option for her. She will follow him wherever he goes, shadowing him, loving from afar, finally at home with the knowledge that these intense feelings she’d shied away from acknowledging are a part of her now.

            Knowing all he’s going to do now is wordlessly punish himself for what he cannot change, she rises to her feet, deciding to go visit Jeremy, so she can explain everything and apologise for not being able to hold on for long enough, but it turns out he’s already broken into the Boarding House, evidently on a quest to find Damon to provide him much needed answers.

“Elena!” he spots her and sighs with relief, “There you are. No one’s filled me in on what’s been happening. All I’ve been told was that you and Damon were trapped in the tomb and that Stefan was working on a way of getting you both out. I’ve been so worried!”

            He moves to throw his arms around her, then pauses when he realises his arms aren’t making contact with her. His eyes narrow into slits before widening, his lips falling open in shock, his hands attempting to grip her over and over.

            Tears fall down her cheeks, watching her younger brother work out the heart-wrenching truth, and she attempts to speak, but sheer grief and a delayed response to her own fate rob her of speech.

            “H- How?” he blurts out, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and his expression takes her back to a time when they were kids and he was trying to work out how to tell their parents he’d broken a priceless family ornament, his little eyes searching Elena’s for a magical way to make everything better; she’d ended up taking the blame of course, but later on he’d written a barely legible note to their parents explaining the truth, explaining to Elena later on that just because she was his sister it didn’t mean she had to save him from everything, and that sometimes he had to accept responsibility for the things he’d done.

            “Werewolf venom,” she whispers, and then they both turn as a half dressed Damon staggers out into the hallway, his secret bottle of Bourbon stashed away for emergencies in his hand, looking with such misery in Jeremy’s direction it triggers her brother’s tear ducts, which suddenly start overflowing, much to her agony.

            “Is – Is she there?” Damon implores, reaching blindly, groping for hands he’ll never touch again.

            Jeremy inclines his head.

            “She’s here,” he confirms, wiping his eyes furiously, looking at Elena with such longing and heartache, the urge to sweep him up in her arms and wipe away those tears overwhelms her.

            “Elena,” Damon moans, burying his head in his one free hand. “I – I’m so sorry.”

            Elena starts to cry, overwhelmed with the finality of it all, mourning the brief relationship they shared together.

            Jeremy observes her quietly, drawing conclusions from what he sees of both their reactions. Something went down between them in the tomb, and it had such an impact, that it has them crying in perfect synchronicity. He doesn’t say a word, but continues to gaze at his sister with eyes that leak tears he can’t control at this point.

            It’s then she comes up with the perfect thing to say, and she conveys her message to Jeremy, whose brow furrows, not quite understanding what she means by it, but willing to pass it on all the same.

            “She says she might be on the other side, but it doesn’t mean she won’t be keeping to the last thing on her list, and that’s a promise. She, erm, says you’ll know what it means.”

            It evidently means a great deal to Damon, who after a moment of contemplation smiles weakly, having mentally engraved that last wish on the forefront of his mind, so it’ll always stay with him.

He lifts the bottle of Bourbon in the air, in the style of a drunken toast, and then brings the bottle to his lips, necking back some of the liquor with gratitude.

            “I said I wanted forever,” he says, choking back broken laughter, “but not like this. But I will take anything, even a ghost for a girlfriend, if it means not spending the rest of eternity alone. I’ll take it. I’ll fucking take it because I have nothing else.”

            He brushes past Jeremy, tears still streaming down his face.

            “The moment you don’t feel like being alone, you come here,” he commands gruffly. “If being alone gets too much for you, you pack your stuff – your x-box and whatever other crap you possess – and move in here.”

            Jeremy’s eyes widen with surprise.

            “Why?”

            “Because Elena wouldn’t want you to be alone. And I know I’m gonna regret my offer five seconds after you accept it, and I know it’ll never make up for snapping your neck, and I can’t promise it’ll never happen again, because god knows you’re an annoying brat the best of times,  but it’s the best I can offer, after everything I’ve done to make your life miserable.”

             Jeremy’s expression wavers, and she can see he’s weighing up the pros and cons of taking Damon up on his offer, while simultaneously trying to work through his grief.

            “Think about it,” Damon advises, some of his words coming out slurred and distorted, as he stumbles down the hallway and out of sight.

            Jeremy’s eyes lock on hers, and they share a silent agony at the situation they’re both in, with only him able to see her, and her able to see him and talk to him, but unable to protect him.

            “He only wants me around because I can talk to you,” Jeremy says eventually. “What exactly happened between you down there, or should I just pretend like it wasn’t totally obvious you two would hook up at some point?”

            “Why ask if you already know?”

            He merely shrugs.

            “You know he won’t be able to love a ghost for the rest of his life, right?” he asks, echoing back words she’d said to him a while ago. “You’ll have to let him go.”

            “I know.” She gazes at the space Damon had been just moments ago. “But not just yet.”


End file.
